The Potter


I loved someone, once.

He was an eagle.

He was cloaked in galaxies; seated in clouds.

Tall. Confident. O Captain, my Captain; adulthood and sophistication teetered in the hook of his nose. He was a whisper on the wind of all I could not be alone.


I remember thinking – can a man be so beautiful? Transfixed by you. That’s what I was.

And the night I saw your chest, woven with gold stars, electric; and the wings at your back, spinning half-dreamed tales of your warmth; and the glimmering yellow of your fucking aureole-crown, floating as it was above the words and worlds of your eyes.

That was the night I began to wonder.


I looked to you to make me comfortable with the woman I thought I was supposed to be. Behind my apologies and my quiet smiles I wished that I was clay in your hands –

That your fingers would love my curves so that I could, too.

And I wished that I could want you to want me so that I could want me.


But I could not want your touch, because I was not built that way –

And I could not love my curves, because my soul was straight; all angles, no flow, sharp points and arrow tips, rocks without a stream.


I made you into a promise that you’d never made to me.

And you did not want me to want you to want me. You wanted me to want me.


I can do that now.

I can say I do not need to be a woman to be beautiful. I do not need to be two to be whole. I do not need a man-angel to mould me into something I was never built to be, to make me want something I was not made to want.


But I still wonder, often; if I could have claimed that womanhood, would you have wanted me?

By Anonymous

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